Chapter 3

A black Maybach was parked at the corner when it arrived for me. The driver stepped out and opened the door respectfully, drawing stares from passersby.

Edward happened to be on the balcony, phone in hand, when he saw me get in. He froze, confusion flashing across his face.

Where did that car come from? Hadn't she cut ties with her family?

Yes, I had. But I wasn't stupid anymore.

When the car pulled up to Grant Manor, my father was already standing at the entrance. His hair had more gray in it than I remembered.

"Dad." My throat tightened.

Brandon's face stayed stern as always, but he reached out and pulled me into a hug. "Crying already? Took you long enough to come home," he grumbled, voice rough with emotion.

The moment I felt my father's arms around me—solid, trembling just slightly—I couldn't hold it in anymore. "Dad," I choked out, my voice breaking. "I missed you."

Brandon quickly let go and turned away, probably trying to hide the redness in his eyes. "It's good you're home," he said gruffly. "Go inside. Your mother's been waiting all day."

Eleanor was already in the living room. She pulled me down beside her, fussing over me like she used to—handing me a cup of coffee, piling food into my plate, reminding me at least five times that I was staying here from now on.

For the first time in months, I felt the warmth of family. Maybe divorce wasn't the end after all. Maybe it was the start of something new.

After dinner, I wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and called Edward.

"Tomorrow. Ten a.m. Family Court," I said, my tone steady but sharp. "Didn't you say you wanted Clara to rest in peace? Then let's get this over with."

He went quiet for a few seconds, clearly not expecting me to move this fast. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. "Vivian, you don't have to rush it. Maybe we could take a little time—"

"No." I cut him off. "If you can't let her go, then don't hold on to me."

The next morning, I stood outside Family Court in a dark green trench coat, makeup flawless.

Edward looked like he hadn't slept all night. He froze when he saw me. "You look—"

"Good?" I arched a brow. "Well, I figured I'd dress up to celebrate being single again."

When we got to the signing table, his hand hesitated.

I tapped the surface lightly. "What's the matter, Mr. Shaw? Hands shaking already? Clara's waiting for you at home."

His face stiffened, but he signed.

When it came to dividing the assets, I handed over a folder I'd prepared weeks ago. "Forty percent of the original startup funds came from my personal account," I said calmly. "I'm reclaiming that in full, including the Series A shares and both offshore accounts."

Edward's eyes flicked over the documents, his brows tightening. "How do you even know about these?"

I smiled without answering.

I might have been naïve once, but I wasn't blind.

He'd always thought I was docile—the sweet, quiet wife who never questioned anything. He forgot I'm Vivian Grant, eldest daughter of the Grant family, raised to survive boardrooms and billionaires.

"You said Clara's dying, and you want her to be at peace. Fine. I'm letting you go," I said evenly. "But I'm taking back everything I earned."

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but I was already signing my name at the bottom of the divorce papers.

"Mr. Shaw," I said as I handed him the pen, "wish you and Clara a long, happy life together."

When I walked out of Family Court, I finally exhaled.

After eight years and one failed marriage, for the first time, I wasn't ending something. I was setting myself free.

A notification buzzed on my phone. It was a transfer from my father.

The note read: [Congratulations on your divorce.]

I stared at the string of zeros and laughed.

So what if I lost love? I still had money.